


does he love you better than i can?

by seravphim



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Drunk Enjolras, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Jealous Enjolras, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, enjolras really likes grantaire :(
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-09
Updated: 2020-11-09
Packaged: 2021-03-09 09:28:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,259
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27468733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seravphim/pseuds/seravphim
Summary: So Grantaire is inlovewith someone that isn’t him. That’s fine. It’s not better, but it’s fine.// in which enjolras really likes grantaire, grantaire really likes some other blond boy, somebody gets punched, and we should all just stop forcing enjolras to attend parties.
Relationships: Enjolras/Grantaire (Les Misérables)
Comments: 21
Kudos: 188





	does he love you better than i can?

**Author's Note:**

> this is all embarrassingly inspired by the song 'dancing on my own' :)

“Grantaire is late,” Enjolras comments as he huffs down at their usual corner table in the musain.

“So you mention every week,” mutters Combeferre absently, warranting a glance from the other boy.

He wrinkles his nose at him. “What is that supposed to mean, exactly?”

Combeferre lets out a sigh that only sounds half-annoyed and peels his face out of whatever politi-sci textbook he was studying. “I mean,” he starts, like a mother to a child, “You make the same comment every week about him being late.”

He feels his ears go pink. “Well, he’s late every week, so -”

“ _So,”_ interrupts Eponine from a table over. She would have been embarrassed to have been caught eavesdropping, except no, she wouldn't. “It’s different this week. He’s on a date. _I_ set him up, actually,” she announces proudly. “It must be going well, too, because it was supposed to be over by now.”

Enjolras tries to remain stoic, unaffected. “Oh,” he replies dismissively, keeping his eyes low and pretending to be very interested in the linoleum tiles. Eponine has already turned around and Combeferre has returned to his textbook. 

Courfeyrac, though, remains the bane of his existence. “Grantaire is on a _date,_ ” he repeats, mocking pride and dramatically clutching his chest. “I can’t remember the last time he actually _dated_ someone. And if it’s going good… _Good for him!”_ He waggles his eyebrows at Enjolras, who rolls his eyes. 

He tries to change the subject. “The world doesn’t stop for these things,” he sighs. “Shall we start without him, then?”

Except, it’s hard to keep his mind from wandering when he cant stop thinking about that chilling fact: Grantaire is fucking someone who isn’t him. Enjolras had always considered this possibility; Grantaire has a way of charming people and being friendly with everyone - everyone that wasn’t Enjolras, it seems - so Grantaire fucking someone else was always a _possibility,_ just one he tried not to think about. Still, _someone else_ and _fucking_ don’t seem quite fair. It was a date - perhaps, if Enjolras was lucky, it was just a really good date with no sex involved at all. And anyway, there is no _someone else_ because there is no original, no one that would make this whole thing a betrayal. If Combeferre could read his mind (and on especially stressful days, Enjolras is quite sure he can), he would tell him to _stop being so dramatic_ and also _wait, you’re in love with Grantaire?_ Without all the connotations _,_ Grantaire is just having a nice time on a nice date with a nice boy.

So Grantaire is _in love_ with someone that isn’t him. That’s fine. It’s not better, but it’s fine.

Grantaire stumbles in a half hour later, wearing that victorious glow of someone who is in love. That's the worst part: not the faint hickey on his jaw, or the smell of another man's cologne _(another man)_ \- but the happiness that sizzles beneath his skin, the electric smile, none of which are things Enjolras has ever pulled out of him. It’s a bitter ache, the way Enjolras’ head snaps up at the tinkling bell on the door, like he’d been waiting for him - _like he has a right to wait for him_ , a voice in his head mocks - the way Grantaire beams as he enters, blush on his cheeks like he’s had too much whiskey except he’s standing a bit too rigid for that. He’s not quite drunk, which might be worse - if only Grantaire would wake up tomorrow with a hangover and a fistful of regret, call the whole thing off with the _other man_ and tell Eponine that he’s _just fine being a bachelor actually, sorry._ The idealist strikes again. 

Still, Enjolras is not completely oblivious to these things, especially when he recognizes a familiar look in Grantaire’s eyes - _the Marius sparkle_ , as Courfeyrac puts it - the twinkle that only appears when someone is hopelessly in love.

It’s pathetic, even Enjolras can admit that much. He wants to make eye contact with him and be the one to make his smile deepen, hear his familiar nickname _Apollo_ slip out of his mouth like a pet name, wants Grantaire to have been waiting for him like he has been waiting for Grantaire. He wants the hickey to just be a bit of dirt, wants him to just be trying a new cheap cologne sampler, wants him to drop into that intimate scowl Enjolras has come to know so well - no, actually, that last part isn't quite true. Really, he wants him to keep smiling, to breathlessly clutch his chest and recite romantic poetry, wants to witness the beauty of _Grantaire in love_. Everyone becomes beautiful when they are in love, and god, Grantaire has never looked more dangerously in love. Enjolras just wishes he was the one he was in love with, that's all. 

Despite what Combeferre or Feuilley or Grantaire _(Grantaire)_ might say, Enjolras is not so naive. There’s a subtle difference between idealism and romanticism - Enjolras is _not_ romantic. He knows he can’t have his cake and eat it too - Grantaire is hopelessly in love and Enjolras is hopelessly in love with him. He wishes he were a romantic.

 _It’s been one night,_ he reminds himself. _One good date,_ he tries to rationalize, tries to remember that he’s been on a million good first dates that didn't survive any further. Still, if it dies at the foot of Grantaire’s bed the next morning, it won’t matter anyway, because Enjolras will always be haunted by the way Grantaire was for a brief moment, completely enamored with _someone else._

He finally manages to make eye contact and pretends not to shrink back into his coat. _“Apollo,”_ Grantaire sighs with an impossible fondness, and for a brief moment Enjolras imagines him calling him that in any other scenario - preferably one that involves some sort of tender _togetherness_ \- before he pretends to be disinterested. “I’ve finally come around. Love is at the heart of everything, and everything is lovely. The romantics have won.” _Romantics._

Enjolras blinks at him. “Are you thinking of Jehan, maybe? Or Marius?” 

“Of course not,” he assures. “I’m thinking of you.” _I’m thinking of you._ Later, Enjolras will run that sentiment over in his head so much it’ll tear apart, but for now he tries not to think about it. 

“The cause has never been about - _love,”_ Enjolras bites, even though he knows it makes him sound like an asshole. “You can’t pass a policy with _love.”_

“Careful,” he says, mock scandalized. “Your dear Patria might hear you.”

He groans and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Just - take a seat, R,” he says, letting the nickname slip out, that familiarity leaking through. “We don't have time for this.” 

Grantaire obliges with a grin, a dimple forming in his cheek, and a traitorous part of him wants to kiss it. For the next few months, Grantaire shows up later and later to meetings, until they’re lucky if he pops his head in for a minute at the end of one. 

“I want to meet him,” Courfeyrac moans one day when Grantaire graces them with his brief presence. “He must be _great_ if you’re ditching us everyday to be with him.”

“He’s cool,” comments Bossuet, which brings a murmur of agreement from most of their other friends.

Courfeyrac scowls. “Has _everyone_ met him except me?”

“I haven’t met him,” Enjolras offers, but he regrets saying it when Grantaire gives him a look that he doesn’t quite know what to make of. 

“You wouldn’t like him,” he says quickly. 

Enjolras doesn’t know what that means, but before he can ask, Courfeyrac is offering - more like forcing them - to throw a party. “ _We have to_ ,” he explains. “It’ll be, like, an official introduction into Les Amis!” The rest of the group seems unconvinced until Courfeyrac adds, “And I’ll bring free booze.” 

“Free booze? Sounds like a plan,” Eponine decides on behalf of - well, everyone. “My place, this saturday?”

“Woah, woah,” Grantaire interjects, and Enjolras thinks this might be the first time he’s seen him reject a party. “I, uh - what’s the word? Consent. _I do not consent.”_

“Duh,” Eponine rolls her eyes. “That’s why we’re doing it at _my_ place. And everyone already wants to do it, so you’re out of luck, R.” 

Enjolras scans the room to verify her statement. Musichetta seems excited enough, which means Joly and Bossuet must be, too, and if Eponine is into it then Cosette must be into it, which means Marius is into it, and when have Bahorel and Feuilley ever turned down free booze? _Well, shit._

“ _I_ don’t want to go,” he tries to mutter quietly, except it must not have been too quiet because Grantaire shoots him a hard look that he can’t quite decipher. 

“ _And_ it’ll piss Enj off! You _love_ pissing Enj off,” Eponine adds. Grantaire lets his gaze linger on Enjolras just a moment too long, studying him in a way that makes him feel transparent. 

Finally, he turns to Eponine, mouth screwed up on the side of his face. He holds his breath, considering, and then finally breathes out, “ _Fine._ But you guys have to promise to _be nice.”_

If Grantaire returns his gaze to Enjolras when he says this, well - Enjolras will never know, because he’s too busy not looking at Grantare.

“I don’t wanna go,” whines Enjolras when Combeferre and Courfeyrac swing by his apartment to pick him up. He’s dressed in a smart linen shirt that he thinks is nice, even though he feels a bit ridiculous about putting on an semi-expensive button-up to see his crush at a party. A part of him is painfully aware that linen button-ups are probably more suitable for job interviews than boozy ragers. He wonders if Courfeyrac is internally cringing. 

“We know you don't,” Combeferre reminds him. 

“But you don't have a choice,” Courfeyrac finishes. 

Enjolras scowls. “I don’t really get the point of this.”

Courfeyrac hums as he tries to come up with a good answer that doesn’t amount to ‘ _parties are fun.’_ Combeferre beats him to it. “It’s for _initiation_ purposes.”

“So he’s… _one of us_ now?” Enjolras scrunches his nose. He tried to imagine running a meeting, or taking minutes, or even sitting in the same room as Grantaire and his boyfriend. Grantaire holding someone else's hand, hands lingering on someone else’s shoulders, Grantaire whispering words of love into someone else's neck while they - 

“A friend of Grantaire’s is a friend of ours,” Combeferre says. Enjolras sighs in defeat. 

Courfeyrac waggles his eyebrows. “More than a friend.” 

“ _More than a friend,_ ” he echoes as he follows them out his apartment door. He decides that if he drinks a little more than usual tonight, well, it's for _initiation_ purposes. 

Everyone has met Grantaire’s boyfriend - _Alex? Andrew?_ \- except Enjolras. He hasn’t _not_ been avoiding him, except it seems like Grantaire has been showing him off to just about everyone except him. In the meantime, he’s been forced to linger uncomfortably in a corner, surrounded by Alex or Andrew’s friends, sipping whatever bitter alcohol Bahorel brought. _Maybe Grantaire doesn't want me to be here even more than I don't want me to be here,_ he muses. It wouldn’t surprise him. 

And, worse, Grantaire’s boyfriend is pretty, which Enjolras thinks is just salt in the wound. Grantaire should be with someone rugged and hard and tough - well, he really thinks Grantaire should be with _him_ , but if he isn’t, then rugged and hard and tough seem like the most feasible option. Alex or Andrew is classically pretty, all blond hair and red lips and glowing skin and Enjolras can’t stand it because he catches himself looking in the mirror on more than one occasion, twirling a golden curl around his finger, wondering what's wrong with _his_ blond hair. There is something infuriating about it, an _almost_ about it that drives him crazy - the possibility that it could have been him, that he was almost pretty enough and smart enough and kind enough, and that his hair is almost the exact right shade of blond for him.

 _That’s stupid,_ he tells himself. _Blond hair is just blond hair._

Alex or Andrew’s friends are all idiots. That's probably not fair, but Alex or Andrew’s best friend ( _Kyle?_ ) is in charge of music selection and has inexplicably chosen the worst EDM tracks Enjolras has ever heard in his life. They’re all wearing practically the same outfit, too - skinny jeans, oversized beige shirts and the occasional single pierced ear. It’s like they had all raided the same H&M men's section. 

This line of thinking is definitely not Enjolras feeling embarrassed about choosing his nicest button up and spritzing his curls with a fancy hair product, as if wearing a linen shirt from Banana Republic would make him worth looking at twice. Not that Enjolras has been counting how often Grantaire has glanced at him. (For the record, it’s five, and he doesn’t know if that's too high or too low.)

“Enjolras, my lovely friend and fearless leader!” Courfeyrac approaches him, blushing enough to let him know he’s been having a bit too much of whatever shit Bahorel brought. “Have you seen our latest _friend?”_

“I haven’t spoken with him,” he says, leaving out the ‘ _yet.’_ If he never speaks to him it’ll be too soon. 

Courfeyrac leans in close and tries his best to whisper, “He’s kind of boring. But sweet! And, besides, Grantaire _loves_ him.” He melodically draws the word out and Enjolras grimaces. 

“But you know what isn’t sweet?” Courfeyrac continues, pulling his face away from Enjolras to yell loudly, attracting the attention of the rest of the party. “This music. This music sucks. _No offense_ ,” he says. “But I think it’s _my_ turn to control it.” Enjolras sighs with relief. If nothing else, at the very least now he’ll be sad with Katy Perry in the background. 

That jumpstarts the party. Courfeyrac has proven a special talent for reading the room and playing songs that get everybody to dance. Even Combeferre dances, a little two step with - Eponine, surprisingly, both of them laughing without judgement. Courfeyrac can make anyone dance - everyone except Enjolras, of course, a challenge that he gave up on years ago when Enjolras refused to do the YMCA. ( _“How can you just_ not dance _to the YMCA? Are you a communist?”_ He had asked in genuine despair. _“I’m… literally a communist. And I_ don't _dance.”)_

So he resigns himself to watching the party swirl before him while he sips lukewarm beer from a cup. He usually never drinks, but it’s getting harder to deal with everything sober. Parties are bad enough as it is, but his inability to tear his eyes from Grantaire as his boyfriend dances with him, a hand on his waist, close enough that their feet keep bumping into each other - that's enough to make the whole thing unbearable. Enjolras doesn’t look away. 

If Grantaire had asked him to dance, he might have said yes ( _that is to say, he would not be able to say no)._ But he didn’t ask him, and so he stands against the wall, both hidden and exposed, wishing it was his hand on Grantaire’s waist and not his sweet but boring boyfriend. _This isn’t the prom,_ Enjolras reminds himself bitterly. _I’m not waiting for my crush to ask me from across the dance floor._

But then Grantaire is snaking an arm up to Andrew or Alex’s neck, cupping his face, and _oh -_ he’s kissing him, smiling against his mouth, the two of them turned so Grantaire is facing him and his boyfriend’s back is turned away from him. Enjolras bites his lip hard as his gaze traces Grantaire’s fingers lightly on the other boy's neck. 

Enjolras must be just out of sight for him - no, he’s purposefully out of sight, because if Grantaire just flicked his eyes up he’d see him staring at them from across the living room. So Grantaire is purposefully not looking at him, because he is kissing his boyfriend who he loves very much, and he is not kissing Enjolras because Enjolras is not his boyfriend because Grantaire does not love him. Enjolras knows this. He still can’t look away. 

And then suddenly Grantaire pulls away and for one awful, awful moment, he has let his gaze shift over Alex or Andrew’s shoulder and has made terrible eye contact with him and all Enjolras can do is quickly avert his eyes down, into his red solo cup. A single moment passes in which Enjolras thinks _he must know, surely,_ and then he returns his gaze back into the crowd of dancers and is horrified to see Grantaire is unmistakably heading toward him. 

Well, he can’t deal with that. He downs half of his beer and sharply turns away from Grantaire, making his dizzy way into the empty kitchen. 

An empty kitchen at a party is like a safe room in a horror movie. Illuminated by the blinding fluorescence of the overhead light, the whole kitchen becomes a dream-like, glossy haven of linoleum and porcelain. Or maybe that’s just his beer. He hates drinking, and he never does, except for when - well. _When he thinks he really needs it._

Enjolras relishes this emptiness for a whole ten seconds before Grantaire has followed him inside. He opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but before he does he gives Enjolras a full-body scan. Then he furrows his eyebrows at him. “Are you _drunk?”_

“Um,” he begins, not very convincingly. “This is only my first beer.”

“That doesn’t answer my question,” he says. He gives Enjolras’ shoulder a poke that makes him stumble more than he would care to admit. He laughs, and for everything he swears he hates about Grantaire, a warmth sprouts in Enjolras’ chest. “God, you’re a lightweight.” 

“Am _not_ ,” Enjolras whines. “There’s just… too many people here.” He hopes Grantaire doesn’t read too much into that.

“It’s a party, Apollo.” He gives Grantaire an unamused look that only helps to deepen his grin. Not that he’s complaining about that. “There tends to be… _people_ at parties, you know.” 

Enjolras knows that Grantaire isn’t going to mention what just happened in the living room, and he might not have, either, if he weren’t so embarrassed. “Sorry if I was being weird,” he speaks up. “In the living room, I mean. I just, uh - I don’t dance in front of other people.” 

Grantaire considers him for a moment, and then twists his face into a smile that is particularly shiteating. “So you must dance _alone_ , then?” _Shit._

“Um, _no -”_

“Because we’re alone right now,” Grantaire winks at him, shimmying his shoulders in a little mock dance, an invitation, and _god._ Enjolras really wants to dance with him, make him happy, pull a smile out of Grantaire and feel his hand on his hand, his waist, his _hip,_ maybe, if he were any bolder. But it feels all wrong, it feels dirty, because Alex or Andrew is probably right outside the kitchen, and Grantaire probably just thinks he’s making fun of him but for Enjolras it’s _so much,_ and all he can say is “um.”

But Grantaire is playfully dancing toward him, tugging at his hands, forcing him to sway a bit to the song, and still all that Enjolras can say is _“Um.”_

“Come _on,”_ Grantaire whines. “You’re not that bad!”

“ _Wrong,”_ Enjolras says immediately, but he’s letting himself be pulled around the kitchen to whatever pop song Courfeyrac has decided to ruin his life to. 

Grantaire is forcing him into a two-step, laughing at him in a way that seems less like humiliating more like _old friends_ and Enjolras feels, for the first time all night, content. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, but Grantaire is leading him around in some silly, simple tango and he can’t stop laughing because this is what he wants, and this is what he cannot have, and this is what Enjolras will think about until the day he dies, probably, while Grantaire will just remember it as nothing more than a strange dance at a party if he thinks of it at all. “You’re so _cute!”_ Grantaire tells him as the song ends, and he feels himself go red. _Everyone is more beautiful when they are in love._

He burns even redder when Grantaire finishes the dance with a clumsy twirl that ends up pressing him against the kitchen counter, the two of them pushed into each other. He gives Grantaire a wide-eyed look as the other boy takes a brisk step back, suddenly shy. He’s looking everywhere that isn't Enjolras, and for the first time he looks caught off guard, no snide comment to save him. It’s a vulnerability he’s never seen, even if it only lasts a brief second, and Enjolras wants ask him _why can’t you just be a real person around me, why do you seem like you’re always pretending with me, why don't you ever really look at me, why, why, why._

Enjolras is digging his fingernails into his palm, trying to release the tension that's mixed with something else - frustration? Admiration? - in a healthy way that doesn’t involve suddenly screaming at him that he’s been in love with him forever and he can't just go dancing with him and calling him cute just to fuck someone else - or love someone else, whatever is easier to stomach. 

“You dance fine,” Grantaire tells him, trying to lighten up the awkward tension that's bubbled up between them. “Anyway, uh, I’m going to get a beer for me and, um, Austin.” _Austin._

“I still haven’t met him,” he blurts out as Grantaire grabs two bottles from the fridge. 

He looks over his shoulder and scrunches his nose up at him. “You’d hate him,” he says factually, and leaves Enjolras alone in the kitchen.

 _I probably would,_ he thinks to himself, and grabs another beer. 

Enjolras is a stiff drunk. A drunk that swears he’s not drunk - and even worse, to Grantaire’s delight, and Enjolras’ dismay, he’s a lightweight. So when he downs his second beer and stumbles out of the kitchen, he attracts the attention of more than a few partygoers. Joly spots him immediately and all but clings to his side. 

“God, Enj, are you okay?” he asks, pressing a hand to his shoulder. “You never get drunk -”

“I’m _fine,”_ he insists, swatting his hand away and leaning against the wall for support. Joly gives him a nervous look but is pulled away by Musichetta before he can say anything. 

Suddenly a man Enjolras has never seen before is talking to him. “Are you sure you’re okay?” Must be one of _Austin’s_ friends, one who is a bit too close for comfort, pressing a hand on the wall next to Enjolras’ shoulder as he leans in close. “Because if you’re not, I could always give you a ride home - get out of here, you know…” 

Enjolras is shrinking back and the music must be turned all the way up because it’s impossibly loud in his ears. “I’m, um, fine,” he repeats, but even he knows that it isn’t convincing. 

“You’re more than fine,” the man says, leaning even closer. “You’re _pretty.”_

“Oh - thanks, um,” Enjolras stutters. “But I’m not really - um -”

“ _Really pretty.”_

He wishes then that he hadn’t dismissed Joly, because even with his cane and skinny little arms he could probably intimidate the man better than Enjolras is capable of right now. The music is louder still, and Enjolras can barely focus on the man's face, much less form a coherent sentence. 

“You probably shouldn't, uh -”

And then suddenly there is a hand on the other man’s shoulder, peeling him off of Enjolras with an outrage that scares him even more than this man’s terrible attempt at taking him home. 

The music has stopped and in the whirlwind of it all the room has gone blurry, which only makes it more surprising when he hears that it’s Grantaire’s voice asking, “ _What the_ fuck _are you doing?”_

Enjolras snaps himself into the closest thing to sobriety he can muster and watches Grantaire’s fury in awe. His jaw is locked, his shoulders are squared, and his mouth is pressed into a hard line as he stares him down. It is a sight to behold. “I said, what the _fuck_ are you doing?” 

“I - uh, I just wanted to see if he wanted to, um - I don’t think it’s your business, actually -”

“ _None of my business?”_ He repeats, twisting his face into a scowl - a real scowl, one that Enjolras has never seen before, and if he wasn’t drunk he’d probably be a little turned on. “He’s _drunk,_ are you kidding me?” 

“ _He_ said he’s fine,” the man says smugly. “And I think he’s _fine_ too.” 

Grantaire is a boxer. Grantaire is a boxer and Enjolras has, on more than one occasion, had the pleasure of bearing witness to the glory of him in a boxing ring. (It’s a terrible thing. Terrible and wonderful. Enjolras can hardly stand it, watching the sweat glisten off of his neck, his nimble movements, the determined glint in his eye.) This man must surely be unaware of this fact, so it'll be one hell of a shock for him when Grantaire gives him a steady look, sets down his beer, pulls back his fist, and connects his knuckles with the hard line of the other man’s jaw. 

_“Holy shit_ ,” Enjolras hears Cosette murmur; Cosette, who never, ever curses. The man didn’t fall, but he came damn close, and is now nursing his jaw in his hands. The whole room is staring at Grantaire, except for Grantaire, who is staring at Enjolras. 

“Enj, you’re drunk,” he says pointedly. “Get your stuff. I’m taking you home.” 

Enjolras awkwardly turns red. “...Aren’t _you_ drunk?” 

He gives Enjolras a look. “Are you kidding?”

As soon as he settles into the passenger's seat, he breaks the silence. “I’m really sorry,” he begins. 

Grantaire knits his eyebrows at him. “What?” 

“You should be back there with Austin, this is _your_ party, anyway, and I didn’t even want to come anyway, and -”

“You didn’t even _want_ to come and you almost got -” he struggles to find the words, then sighs and settles his head against the car seat headrest, shutting his eyes tight. “I’m sorry, Enjolras, I shouldn’t have let them throw a party, or I should have told you to stay home or something, or - I should have kept a better eye on you. His friends can be real assholes.”

He feels pathetic, like some dainty damsel in distress, and at the same time he keeps remembering the fury in Grantaire’s eyes when he pulled the man away from him, a videotape on rewind in his head. “You were keeping an eye on me?”

“Apparently not a very good one,” he mutters, but gives him an embarrassed look. When Enjolras doesn’t respond, he continues, “Look, you never get drunk, okay? I wanted to make sure nothing happened to you.” 

Enjolras buries his head in his hands. “I’m _mortified,”_ he groans. “I’m _drunk._ And you had to _punch someone._ Christ.” 

Grantaire lets out a laugh. “I guess I’m the one that must keep our fearless leader in check, after all.” 

He tries to give him a look he hopes isn't too fond, too telling. Grantaire starts the car. As they begin driving, Enjolras says quietly, “I never even met your boyfriend.”

“You would hate him,” he responds immediately. 

Enjolras is quiet for a moment, and then whispers, “Yeah, I think I would.” Grantaire says nothing. 

The ride to Enjolras’ apartment is comfortably quiet, except Grantaire won’t look at him - _Not fair,_ he reminds himself, _he’s not going to look at you, otherwise he’d get into a wreck._ Still, it feels deliberate somehow, and it takes everything in his willpower not to apologize a thousand more times. 

“How do you know where I live?” He asks, breaking the silence. 

Grantaire laughs quietly. “I’ve been to your apartment before, Enj, Christ.” 

Enjolras scrunches up his nose as he considers this. “Yeah, but - I always thought Bahorel drove you. I didn't think you actually paid attention.”

“You never think I pay attention,” he mutters.

“No - I didn’t mean it like that,” he says sheepishly. “I just meant… I didn’t think you actually cared. About me. Or my apartment. Not that you have to.” 

For the first time, Grantaire sneaks a glance at him with a gaze Enjolras can’t quite place. Then he snaps back into something else, something more distant. “Well, you _are_ our fearless leader, afterall. Caring about you is only the bare minimum.”

Before he can stop himself, he blurts out, “Why do you do that?”

Grantaire bites his lip. “Do what?” 

“I - I don't know. It’s like, you look like you’re going to be sincere, but then you go and say something… wrong. Not _wrong_ ,” he recedes, trying to be as embarrassingly genuine as he can in his buzzed state, and yet still finding the wrong words. “Just… something you don’t really mean. I can tell. You’re not as _cool_ as you think.”

“I mean it,” he grits, still playing a part that Enjolras can’t quite place. “You’re _fearless,”_ he snaps back sarcastically, and Enjolras rolls his eyes.

“That’s not what I mean. You know what I mean.”

Grantaire hums to himself. “Do I?”

Enjolras lets a silence pass for a moment, mentally preparing himself to be vulnerable. He can feel it all slipping out, words he wants to tell him and doesn't want to speak. “It’s like with everybody else, you’re so… natural. You’re sincere with everyone else. You’re - _friends_ with them.” 

“I’m friends with you,” Grantaire says meekly. 

He shuts his eyes tight. “I don't want to be friends. You know that.” 

“Yeah, I know,” he concurs, and Enjolras feels small and rejected, like a little boy alone on the playground. Then Grantaire spits out, “Christ, Enj, why do you even fucking come to these things? We both know you can’t stand me -” 

“That’s - that’s not what I mean,” he breathes out quickly, and he wants to cry out of frustration. Enjolras always finds the words for everything; he thrives in front of crowds, writing essays - hell, finding the right words is practically what he does for a living. And yet, around Grantaire, it’s like everything gets fuzzy around the edges. There are no words that quite describe what he feels for him. It’s around this part in their little back-and-forth fake-mutual-hatred-banter that if Enjolras decides that his mouth isn't big enough for the right words, everything turns to mush. Usually, Grantaire leaves angrier, Enjolras is left empty, and the unspoken words float between them like a pathetic balloon that just won't deflate. This time, Enjolras tries to make his mouth bigger. He tries to make the words fit. “What I mean is - I want more than that,” he swallows. “I want to be more than friends.” 

Grantaire pulls into a stop in front of his apartment. He gives him a look, halfway between disbelief and frustration, and Enjolras wants to do something crazy, like violently shake his shoulders and try to make him _understand,_ or manically throw his fist through the window, or kiss him, softly, on the side of his mouth. “You’re drunk,” is all Grantaire says.

A fair point, Enjolras decides. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I’m drunk and I’m in love with you.”

Grantaire lets out a garbled noise in the back of his throat and scrubs a hand over his face. “I can’t - you can't just _do_ this Enjolras, I’m trying to - I can’t -” he groans again, and diverges his gaze right through him, past his shoulder, and Enjolras didn’t know he could feel so naked and invisible at the same time. “It’s _mean_. You’re being _mean_.” 

“I’m not - how am I being mean?” 

He gives him one last disbelieving look and tells him, “You have to go, Enjolras,” he commands firmly, but gently, saying his name with intense focus on the way it sounds. “You have to leave right now.” 

Enjolras, uncertain and heartbroken, obliges, opening the car door with a shaky hand. Before he can even enter the building, Grantaire has driven off. 

Grantaire has not attended a meeting for two weeks. According to Joly, he’s _as peachy as ever, just caught up with his dear Austin, you know, and, oh! - Enjolras, have you seen his new haircut?_ He gives him a polite smile and tells him _No, I haven’t,_ and _Thank you,_ and rushes out an _I have to go_ when Joly tries to show him a blurry picture of him on his phone. Grantaire’s absence isn’t worrying, considering that even before the party he rarely even poked his head in, and anyway, he’s doing _fine,_ so why worry? Still, it feels somehow deliberate, planned, like he’s being avoided, and on one hand Enjolras wants nothing more than for Grantaire to show up bruised, bitter, and not in love with him - how he normally shows up - and on the other hand he thinks if that happened he might pass out. And if Enjolras passed out, then Joly would, too, and, _well_. Best not for him to come at all, then.

Still, sometimes the little tinkling bell attached to the door will ring in the middle of a meeting, and Enjolras will look up, hopefully, only to be disappointed when it's just someone ordering a pastry late at night. He feels jumpy and excited, dreadful and embarrassed. He feels like a high schooler. He feels like an unfinished book. 

“Grantaire is late,” he mutters one night, approximately 5 weeks after the events of the party took place. He hasn’t checked, actually, but it’s become a pavlovian response at this point. 

Combeferre gives him a look and opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, Bossuet interjects. “Um, no he's not,” he says and gestures to the counter, where Grantaire is ordering some bitter hot drink and pestering Musichetta. 

“Oh,” he says blankly, and he feels his tongue go dry. “Guess I was wrong, then -”

“Enjolras was _wrong?”_ Eponine exclaims in mock-scandal. “Christ, call the authorities. Enjolras is wrong, Grantaire is _on time -_ the world must be ending.” She pulls Grantaire’s hand, who is holding what is no doubt a hot chocolate near his rosy cheeks. He laughs playfully, and it is something that Enjolras has missed so much that he cannot tear his eyes away from him.

Grantaire looks up, suddenly, and makes eye contact with Enjolras, who maybe hasn’t breathed in a whole minute. There is something in his gaze - somehow, both a blankness and a challenge, something both uncertain and conclusive. Pleading, perhaps, to forget about what happened those weeks ago. Enjolras parts his lips, not intending to say anything, just unsure of what to do. Grantaire’s gaze lingers a moment, just long enough that no one else would notice if it hadn't been directed at them. But Enjolras clings to it, all the same. 

Somewhat dejected, he sits back down in his cheap folding chair at the head of the table. 

“So, where's Austin?” Marius asks, and Enjolras has to control his desire to kick him under the table. 

Grantaire swallows a swig of hot chocolate. “He had some class tonight. No point in me sticking around at home, alone.” 

“What class?” Feuilley asks politely. Grantaire hesitates.

“Um - something like, uh. Drawing. Painting. _Art,”_ he says, avoiding eye contact with - well, anyone. 

The table shares a telepathic silence with each other. “Uh, Grantaire? Don't _you_ do art? Like, professionally?” Musichetta asks, and Grantaire nods sheepishly. “And you’re making your poor boyfriend pay for classes?”

“Well,” he tries to explain. “He doesn’t really _know_ that I’m an artist.”

The whole table is giving him a bewildered look. “What?” Asks a rightfully confused Jehan. “You two have been dating for, like, _months_ right? And you’ve just… never told him?” Grantaire doesn’t respond. “Why not?” 

“Grantaire, if this is about, like, self-esteem, or something - you’re a great artist! There’s no need to be embarrassed in front of your _boyfriend_ of all people,” assures the ever-helpful Eponine. Enjolras thinks of all the times Grantaire has been embarrassed in front of him, and all the times he has caught him sketching fervently in his notebook (and, all of the times in which Grantaire has shut it quickly and decisively when he notices Enjolras staring).

“No, it’s nothing like that - I just… I don’t want him to know, okay?” Eponine gives him a searching look but leaves it be, the rest of the group seemingly backing off as they shift their attention to Enjolras. 

The meeting is a frustrating one. Sometimes Enjolras will, in the middle of some scathing spiel, make horrible eye contact with Grantaire and lose all train of thought. Or when it’s his turn to listen, he’ll find his eyes wandering over to him, who is almost never looking at him (except for when he is, and they both look away quickly, and Enjolras doesn’t know which is worse). And the worst part is, in this meeting, Grantaire says nothing. At least, nothing to him. No heckles, no jibes or reminders that their efforts are futile. It’s like he no longer exists to him, and if rejection was bad, well, this is worse. 

When it's over, Enjolras watches their friends trickle out of the cafe, waving goodbyes out the door, until it’s just him and Grantaire left in the backroom of the musain. Grantaire, still nursing his hot chocolate and studying his feet at the other end of the table, refusing to make eye contact but refusing to leave. 

Enjolras pretends to be busy, pretends to be very preoccupied in some flyer, and says “So you’re staying, then?”

Grantaire looks up. “What?” 

That’s a good question. Enjolras isn’t quite sure what he meant by it. “I just mean - you haven’t gone home yet.”

“No,” he confirms. “I’m just, um. Lingering, I guess.”

Enjolras considers this. It’s a stupid thing to say. Empty. It's what you say when you don't know what to say. Usually, Grantaire knows what to say, and usually, he knows it’ll piss him off. But now it feels like they’re just avoiding something.

Well, duh. They _are_ just avoiding something, and they’ve been avoiding it since Grantaire stepped through the glass doors. “Why?” He asks. “Are you lingering, I mean?”

Grantaire looks around him, wide-eyed, embarrassed, like a little boy being scolded. “Sorry, I’ll just go, then -”

“No,” interrupts Enjolras desperately. He starts out of his chair and approaches him tentatively. “You don't - I didn’t mean _leave.”_

“You didn’t?” Grantaire’s face looks small. 

“No,” he assures. “I meant - are we going to, you know, talk about _it_?” _It._ That's what you call things you can't name, things that go unspoken. _It._ The word floats between them like a knife. 

“What is there to talk about? You were drunk.” 

“I -” begins Enjolras, but decides he can’t argue he wasn’t drunk when, well, he was. “You’re drunk all the time and that doesn’t diminish anything you say.”

“You didn’t seem to think that the last time I attended a meeting,” mutters Grantaire bitterly. “And I’m not drunk all the time, despite what you might think.”

Enjolras takes the empty seat next to him, settling down carefully. “That’s not what I meant,” he tries, gentler. “Look, Grantaire, I’m sorry -”

“For what? What do you possibly have to be sorry about?”

He feels his face burn red with humiliation. Having to say it out loud - _sorry for being in love with you, sorry for loving you, hopelessly and foolishly, when you don't love me back, sorry for everything -_ was just salt in the wound. “You _know._ Don't make me say it. Don’t humiliate me.” 

Grantaire gives him a sweeping look and Enjolras wants to crawl away, bury himself under the linoleum floors. “However you think you feel about me - you don't. Your thinking is all wrong. You don’t _love_ me.” 

“But - I _do._ I think about you all the time. Where you are, what you’re doing, who you’re doing it with - that’s all I ever think about. And I _know_ you really love him,” he feels his voice crack, and Enjolras is known for his composure but now he thinks he might really collapse into a sobbing mess right there on the table, a pathetic heap in front of Grantaire. “I know you do. And I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have told you, I know.”

Grantaire lifts a hesitant hand up, like he’s going to touch him, and Enjolras is thrilled and terrified. He could slap him. He could kiss him. He’d take either. Instead, he yanks it away and pulls it through his hair. 

He gets up and strides across the room, nearing the exit, crumpling the cup in his hands. “You can’t just - you can’t just _do_ that,” he says, hurt and angry and more sincere than Enjolras has ever seen him, and suddenly he is alone in the backroom of the Musain. _Shit._

A week later, Grantaire is early again. Early enough that Enjolras can’t even get the treasured complaint out before he spots him. 

“Woah!” Exclaims Bahorel cheerfully, slinging an arm across him. “Twice in two weeks! The last time we saw you this often, you were single!” 

“Um,” starts Grantaire, wrestling his way out of the hold Bahorel put on him. Not an easy feat, to say the least, Bahorel having similar athletic merits to Grantaire. “That’s because I am single, now.” 

The room goes silent as they give him a confused look. “Surprise?” He tries. 

They are all looking at him, except Enjolras, he is looking anyway but Grantaire. “Are you okay?” Asks Eponine, taking a step closer like a mother caring for a wounded kitten. He shrugs. 

“Don’t worry about it. I’m strong. _Boxers_ , you know how we are,” he laughs awkwardly. When no one eases up, he gives in. “Okay, fine. _I_ was the one that broke up with him. Is that satisfying for you all?” 

Courfeyrac lets out a gasp that Enjolras would call _overdramatic_ if it was anyone but Courfeyrac. “Oh my god, was he like, a really bad snorer? Or secretly a conservative? Or terrible in bed? Or -” He quiets suddenly, and throws a glare at Combeferre, who must have just kicked him under the desk. “Oh, uh. Sorry about the breakup.” 

Grantaire laughs, and the tension breaks somewhat. “No, no. Just uh - _artistic differences,_ as they say. Is this - is that what being _Yoko-Ono’d_ is?” 

“Like hell,” mutters Bossuet. “ _We_ got Yoko Ono’d by him! I feel like the last time I really saw you was a lifetime ago.” Enjolras shudders. 

“Yeah. And his friends play terrible music,” Courfeyrac adds, and the rest of them hum in agreement. Enjolras would very much like to stop talking about this now.

Grantaire is the last of them left when the meeting is finished. He had spoken very little all night, an unusual feat for him especially when he gets drunk, but he had drank very little all night, an unusual feat for him especially when, _well_ , he’s Grantaire. 

“I lied,” he begins, unprompted. He hesitantly stands up and hovers near Enjolras, not quite looking at him. His fists are jammed into his pockets and the sincerity in his voice, so close to him, makes Enjolras shudder. “Earlier. I told you all that I broke up with him. I didn’t. It was the other way around.”

As Enjolras is cleaning up he sneaks a hesitant glance at him. “It’s not the end of love, R,” he tries, but it’s hard to say.

“Evidently not,” he replies nonchalantly. “You seem more dedicated than ever to _the cause.”_

He looks at him for a moment, studying this facade that must only exist for him when it lingers even after everyone else is gone. At least he knows Grantaire does some things for him. He wants to be soft. 

“I know you really liked him,” he tries. Grantaire gives him his first real look of the night, eyebrows knitted together and lips pursed like he’s trying not to say something. It’s not a new expression on him, especially toward Enjolras, but it's still unexpected. 

He tips his head back, up to the ceiling, and shuts his eyes tight. _This is how Grantaire makes a confession,_ Enjolras realizes, and he is both terrified and intrigued. 

“I didn’t, really,” he admits quietly. “He was… a rebound. Of sorts. But he was nice.” 

Enjolras considers this. _A rebound._ So Grantaire hadn’t _fallen in love_ with someone that wasn't him. But he hadn’t fallen in love with him, either. Fine. 

“He reminded me too much of him,” he adds. 

Enjolras swallows something hard in his throat. “I didn’t know you were dating someone -”

“I wasn’t,” Grantaire interrupts quickly, snapping his face back to look at him. There is something defeated, hopeful, crushed and euphoric in his eyes. Something manic and depressed. “It wasn’t like that.” 

“Oh,” he says, unsure of why Grantaire is telling him this, _wants_ to tell him this.

With a sigh, Grantaire heaves up from his chair and takes a step toward Enjolras. “He reminded me of someone who I was avoiding.” 

Enjolras doesn’t want to hear this. He doesn’t want to hear Grantaire rave about somebody funny and talented and _fun,_ some gritty boy that is much nicer to him than Enjolras is, probably plays guitar or parties or paints his fingernails. He doesn’t want to be reminded that Grantaire doesn’t like him, and maybe never will. He would like to remain shamefully delusional about one luxurious thing, please. He says nothing. 

“He talked so much, just like him - not about the same things, I wouldn’t be able to stand it if he did - he had hands nearly as nice as his, a smile almost as pretty, the same white teeth -”

“ _R -”_ interjects Enjolras, but Grantaire keeps going.

“The same red lips, the same red _everything,_ the same -” he pauses, giving Enjolras one last hard look. _“The same blond hair.”_

Enjolras has become acutely aware of his own blond hair. He has also become acutely aware of how close Grantaire is. “What are you saying,” he says, trying to stay calm. 

They break eye contact as Grantaire lets out a bitter laugh. “No one’s quite as blond as you, Apollo.” He says it harshly, but the words are still soft underneath. 

“You’re mad at me,” he murmurs, and Grantaire shakes his head. “Yes, you are. You’re mad at me - I don't _get_ it, R, is this a confession? Or are you trying to push me away?”

A tentative hand brushes Enjolras’. “Do you want me to push you away?” He is closer still, the space between them slicing into non-existence. 

For once, he doesn’t think before he speaks. “No,” he answers.

“Then it’s a confession.” 

Enjolras wants that to be the end of it, for them to share a cinematic kiss and watch everything fade to black. But there’s still a nagging voice in the back of his head. “I don't get it,” he says tentatively. “You didn’t like me last week, or at your party - or, _fuck_ , even in the last five years I’ve known you.”

Grantaire offers him a strange, small smile. “I broke up with Austin because I told him I was an artist,” he starts. “And he asked to see my work, but I wouldn’t let him. But he finally found one of my books shoved under the mattress and he flipped through it and it was all pictures of you - your hands, a coil of hair, your mouth when you speak - and he knew, then, why I hadn’t told him, and why I drove you home that night, and why I didn’t want to throw that party at all.”

For the first time, Enjolras doesn’t know what to say, digging his fingernails into his palms and pressing his mouth into a hard, straight line. “I tried so hard not to like you,” Grantaire continues. “I tried so hard to push it aside for so long, and just when I was almost moving on you told me that, in the car -”

“That I loved you,” Enjolras reminds him. 

“That you loved me,” he repeats slowly, like it’s the first time he’s really said it. “And I just didn’t know what to do. I thought you couldn’t stand me. I thought you hated me.”

Enjolras is impossibly aware of how close they are now, the words floating in the mere inches between them. He tentatively takes a step forward, nearly closing the gap between them, his hand reaching out to carefully trace a button on Grantaire’s coat. “I don’t hate you,” he says timidly.

“I know,” Grantaire laughs softly, and Enjolras laughs too. “I know that now.”

“ _Mhm_ ,” Enjolras hums, his hand travelling up to rest at his collar, waiting. “You should do something about it.” 

Grantaire takes a shaky fist out of his pocket and brushes a curl out of Enjolras’ eyes, cupping his face. Enjolras feels himself go red as Grantaire grins. “I probably should,” he murmurs against his mouth before he finally closes the space between them, soft lips on soft lips, his stubble rubbing pleasantly against Enjolras’ smooth skin. 

Next week, Grantaire attends the meeting early, and Enjolras sits on his lap the whole time.

**Author's Note:**

> come say [hello](https://seravph.tumblr.com) on tumblr!


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